


catch me up in a thousand stars

by blackkat



Series: the stars that lead to you [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arabian Nights Fusion, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Cheese, Devotion, Humor, In which the W stands for 'where the hell did all the plot come from???', M/M, Mutual Idiocy, Mutual Pining, PWP, Romance, all in good fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “My king,” Obito murmurs, looking up at Hashirama. It might be treason, but it’s also true. Hashirama isn’t the king, he isn’t even the man who saved Obito when the caravan was attacked and Obito was left behind, wounded and fading quickly. But Hashirama was the first to show him kindness, to earn his loyalty, and Obito will never waver in it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LordOfTheNargles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordOfTheNargles/gifts).



> This was definitely not intended to happen, but barricadeofnargles on Tumblr is an amazing, perfect enabler and flailed with me a lot about the potential of this pairing and somehow it…devolved into smut and magic with added angst and just. This? Which was her amazing idea, and we kind of ran with it. I hope someone somewhere finds our ridiculousness entertaining.
> 
> Also! Barricadeofnargles [did an absolutely gorgeous aesthetic for this fic](http://barricadeofnargles.tumblr.com/post/153725052140/hashiobi-aesthetic-blackkatmagic-the-end-result), which is incredibly inspiring. :D

“You’ve improved, Obito.”

It takes effort for Obito not to lift his gaze from the sword he’s sharpening, not to let the whetstone falter. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he says, and is relieved when the words come out even and steady despite the sound of light-quick footsteps across the stone, seeming too delicate for a man of Hashirama’s size. The whisper of silk makes his breath catch, and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done not to turn and reach out to touch.

The steps pause briefly, then change course, and a moment later Hashirama sinks down onto the bench at Obito's right. There's a small smile on his face, so soft that Obito can't quite look at it straight on, and his dark eyes are warm. “I mean it. Madara is the most accomplished mage in the palace and you beat him. That’s impressive.”

There's heat creeping up into Obito's cheeks, but he firmly keeps his eyes down, not allowing himself the sight of anything beyond his sword. “Lord Madara hasn’t seen a battle larger than a skirmish since he finished his training,” he demurs. “And he relies on magic over weaponry, but I was taught both.”

Hashirama’s large, warm hand clasps his shoulder, just a little more firmly than Obito can write off as friendly. “You're incredible,” he says, and Obito has never met anyone able to put as much sincerity into their words as he does. There's no question of believing Hashirama; Obito simply can't do anything else.

Despite himself, he glances up. Practice keeps his breath from catching, but Hashirama is one of the most handsome men he’s ever seen. Obito has thought so since the very first time they met, Hashirama an untouchable prince in gold and brown, Obito a nomad child with his face in ruins and a magic he couldn’t control beating through his blood, Madara's hand on his nape the only thing holding him in place. One look and Obito had _known_ , right down to the heart of him, that this is where he was meant to be. With this man, guarding his back, walking beside him in any capacity that would be allowed, never hesitating to give his life if it was required.

Nothing has changed, and that feeling gives Obito enough strength to take a breath and ask, “Did you require something, Your Highness?”

“I’d like to go riding,” Hashirama says cheerfully rising to his feet and reaching out, offering Obito his hand. Obito freezes, eyes going wide, but Hashirama just smiles at him, unconcerned by the fact that Obito is nothing but a guard, entirely below such a gesture by the prince. “I assume you want to come?” Hashirama adds, gentle amusement touching his voice.

The question jolts Obito back to his senses, and with half an instant to steel himself he reaches up, laying his fingers over Hashirama’s larger hand. “If you’ll permit me, Your Highness.”

Hashirama’s hand closes over his own, firm and steady, and without any apparent effort he pulls Obito to his feet. Obito rises smoothly, uncrossing his legs and letting himself be drawn upward, and he checks the blade of his sword, sheathes it, and then bows.

“None of that,” Hashirama chides gently, even as he turns and makes for the gate of the small garden. “I told you, you can call me Hashirama when we’re in private.”

It would be so easy to agree, and something in Obito aches for that kind of familiarity, for some touch of intimacy even though he has no right to it. _Dangerous, though_ , something in him whispers, and he knows it’s true. Far too dangerous, because if he gets that one touch he’ll just want more and more, and he can never have it.

“Forgive me,” he says instead. “I couldn’t, Your Highness.”

The look Hashirama casts him would be a pout on anyone else, and Obito isn’t quite quick enough to hide his smile as he glances away. That at least makes Hashirama chuckle, his fingers curling gently around Obito's elbow and squeezing fondly before he lets go again. He leads Obito through the wide halls of the palace, out into the stables where two horses are waiting. Both are carrying packs, and Obito shoots Hashirama a look even as he accepts the reins of his mare.

There are shades of sheepishness in Hashirama’s answering smile, because he’s clearly aware that Obito knows him well enough to see the plan for what it is. Maybe not the specifics, but Obito is well aware that when Hashirama starts to chafe from all his responsibilities, there's only one quick cure.

“You should be taking a full guard with you,” he says reprovingly, even though he’s absolutely sure Hashirama isn’t going to listen this time, either. “Does Lord Madara even know you’re leaving?”

“I sent him a note?” Apparently realizing that Obito is on the verge of yelling at him, their positions and the listening stable hands be damned, Hashirama swings himself up into the saddle of his big black mount and urges the stallion towards the doors. “Are you coming, or are you going to stay there and judge my choices?” he asks cheerfully. “I'm sure I’d be in much more danger alone than I would be with the best mage in the palace at my side.”

The idiot prince is almost halfway to the main gate when Obito heaves a sigh, vaults onto his mare’s back, and sets his heels against her side. She leaps forward into a canter, quickly catching up despite the stallion’s longer legs, and he reins her in on Hashirama’s left with a clatter of hooves on stone. “This is a terrible idea, Your Highness,” he complains, even though his heart isn’t in it.

“Nonsense,” Hashirama retorts. He smiles at the guards by the gate, but barely waits until he’s past the edge of it before he urges his horse into a fast trot and heads down the main road. Over his shoulder, he calls, “Come on, Obito! You’re supposed to be an accomplished horseman!”

Obito tells himself very firmly that he is not going to allow Hashirama to goad him into _anything_. It always ends badly. Mostly for Obito. And that’s not even because of Hashirama’s positon—it’s because he has _puppy eyes_.

This, Obito thinks, is entirely unfair. The man is over six feet and more muscular than a lot of the guards, Obito included. He shouldn’t be able to pout quite that convincingly.

“You’re _slow_ ,” Hashirama calls with a bright grin, and takes a sharp left into the maze of tight alleys that makes up the majority of the city. Obito curses, ignoring the looks it gets him, and kicks his mare forward again. For all Hashirama’s compliments, Obito isn’t nearly as good a rider, but he does have the advantage of knowing the streets much better. He doesn’t try to follow Hashirama directly, but that street is blocked at the end by a damaged cart, and the only direction Hashirama can go—

A sharp shift of his weight sends the mare right, then left, then left again. She leaps up a flight of stairs, lurching up onto a narrow balcony overlooking the street, and doesn’t hesitate. Obito wraps one hand in her mane, leans forward, and hangs on as tightly as he can with his knees as she reaches the end of the stone and _leaps_.

It’s a jump Obito has made before, but when they land with a skid and a clatter on the wide, low roof of the opposite building, he still lets out a breath of relief, reining her in and leaning forward to stroke her neck. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and she flicks an ear back, dancing a little in place with her eagerness now that she’s gotten a run, however brief. “Let’s go find the prince, hmm?”

She snorts as if in agreement, then takes off as soon as Obito loosens the reins. He steers her towards the stairs, leaning back again as she lurches down them, then hits the narrow street at a canter, scattering people in every direction. There's a familiar flash of brown-and-gold robes from one block over, and Obito snorts, giving his mount her head. She immediately bolts right, barely missing a stand of vegetables, and leaps over a water trough without stirring a drinking camel. Another narrow alley, a flash of faces peering down from above, and they burst back out into the light, half an instant before Hashirama thunders into the same street. He looks triumphant for all of three seconds before he spots them, and then the pout is back.

“How do you _do_ that?” he complains. “Every time!”

The edge of adrenaline is enough that Obito grins at him, less than mindful of propriety in the face of it. “Shortcut, Your Highness.”

The face Hashirama makes is entirely undignified, but there's humor in the curve of his lips. “The Dawn Gate should be clear,” is all he says, though, turning his horse down one of the larger streets this time.

There's enough room for Obito's mare to move alongside, and Obito lets her, keeping half an eye on the surrounding crowds and the rest of his attention on the prince. Hashirama is vivid in the midst of the throng, unmistakable as anything but someone important, larger than life. He smiles and waves and never holds himself above everyone else, but Obito can clearly see that he is regardless. Hashirama is kind and wise, gentle but strong. He has the strength to dream, and the will to bring those dreams into being. Not many men can say the same.

The sun is just starting to dip towards the horizon when they manage to break free of the city, and the desert spreads out before them. The Dawn Gate faces east, so the shadows stretch out in front of them as Hashirama pauses, taking a deep breath. Obito stops as well, more to watch Hashirama than anything, though one hand stays close to his sword. The prince looks peaceful here, but not languid. At ease, but strengthened by it.

“Are you planning to make for the hills, Your Highness?” he asks when the silence stretches too long, and Hashirama blinks, coming back to himself. He casts Obito an apologetic smile even as he nods, urging his mount on.

“They’ve been quiet for at least a month now,” he says, as if he can see the arguments brewing on Obito's tongue. The smile stretches into a grin, verging on laughter, and he challenges brightly, “You might beat me in the city, but on open ground I'm sure to win!” One touch of his heels and the big stallion surges forward like an avalanche, following the bare suggestion of a road that winds towards the east.

It takes effort not to groan at his foolishness, not to yell that Hashirama has a guard _for a reason, damn it_. Instead, Obito glances down at his mare, then sighs in resignation and leans forward a little, winding her mane around his fingers. “Are we really going to let him talk to us like that?” he asks and her ears prick up excitedly. The faintest slackening of the reins is all it takes before she’s leaping ahead, deceptively long legs eating up the lead Hashirama has gained. She might be small, but she’s faster than most of the warhorses and can keep up her pace for twice the distance.

With the wind in his face, the desert blurring past them, Obito can't help but laugh. Hashirama laughs too, even as Obito passes him, and the stallion throws his head in offense before lengthening his stride. They fly across the open ground, sand spraying up beneath the horses’ hooves as they head for the hills in the distance, and Obito holds the feeling close, tucks it away in his heart where he’ll never forget it.

They run side by side, and in the heat, in the hush, in the open world, nothing else matters. Nothing else is important, and just for a moment Obito feels as if he could truly fly.

 

“ _Really_?” Obito demands, bewildered. He tries to wrap his head around the idea of Madara, Hashirama’s future advisor, having anything at all to do with Tobirama, Hashirama’s younger brother and one of greatest mages in the country. Tries to extrapolate on that until he can get to _sleeping together and very much involved, even if they pretend otherwise_ , and just—can't. Madara is a bastard who vacillates between a firestorm temper and an icy ruthlessness, and Tobirama is cold as the tundra in the far north, more often to be found in the library than anywhere else.

“Really,” Hashirama confirms, laughing as he tosses the core of his apple over to where the horses are tethered. Obito's mare grabs it first, squealing angrily at the stallion when he gets to close and threatening him with a back leg poised to kick, but at Obito's whistle she settles down again. Hashirama gives the pair an amused glance, and then turns back to Obito, still smiling. “Believe me, I walked in on them once. It’s not the kind of thing I can forget.”

Just the thought of interrupting Madara like that makes Obito grimace, and he leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky to distract himself. From the top of the rise, it seems endless, stretching out in every direction. There's a thin crescent of moon, but not enough to blot out the stars, and Obito can't remember a time they looked more beautiful.

“I just—they’ve never seemed happy,” he says, not entirely certain if it’s directed at Hashirama or himself. “Loving someone—that’s the happiest thing in the world, isn’t it?”

Hashirama hums quietly. “I’ve always thought so,” he says, and when Obito drops his gaze from the stars Hashirama is watching him, eyes soft but somehow dark with intent all at once.

Obito's breath catches in his lungs, and he knows that Hashirama is going to reach out before he even starts to move.

The motion is slow, deliberate. Obito could shift away if he wanted to, could even just say _no_ —Hashirama isn’t the kind of man who would ignore a refusal, no matter his position. But there's absolutely nothing Obito wants less in all the world than to move right now. He’s wanted this to happen practically since the moment a beautiful prince knelt down in front of a battered, grieving boy and smiled at him, warm and kind.

When Hashirama curves a palm to cup his scarred cheek, Obito leans into the touch instead of away from it.

Something wondering and sweet slips into Hashirama’s expression, just visible in the light of the lone lamp. He leans in, still slow, and a sudden and unexpected flare of bravery has Obito leaning in to meet him. He reaches back, and Hashirama’s fingers twine with his in the air, pulling Obito's hand towards him. He kisses Obito's callused fingers, presses his lips to scarred knuckles, and Obito finds he can't even begin to breathe.

“You're so beautiful,” Hashirama says, and his voice is faintly rough. It makes Obito shiver, and when Hashirama catches the movement he makes a soft, wanting sound and closes his eyes tightly. He’s very obviously holding himself back, and Obito still can't quite believe this isn’t a mad dream, but he can't stand it. A breath, sharp and full of courage, and he crosses the space between them, landing on one knee as he slides his free hand into Hashirama’s long, thick hair.

Dark eyes snap open, locking on Obito's, and in an instant the air has thickened with desire. Obito can feel the breathless tremble of it, the heady heat, but he can't look away from Hashirama’s burning gaze.

“Tell me,” Hashirama says, so softly that it barely make it to Obito's ears. “Do you want to stop? I'm not your prince here, Obito, and I’ll listen if you tell me to.”

“I’ve always known that,” Obito answers, and it sounds like a confession in the intoxicating darkness, like a surrender. It may as well be, because Hashirama untangles their fingers to cup Obito's face in both hands, leaning in until he’s all but hovering over Obito, and Obito is staring up at him with wide eyes, feeling his breath come quick and shallow with the sudden surge of desire in his chest.

Hashirama’s thumbs stroke across his cheekbones, and he bends to lay a feather-light kiss on Obito's brow. “You’ve thought of it, then?” he asks, and his tone is just on the edge of solemn. “Thought of us? Of me?”

It feels like a time for the heaviest of secrets, and Obito laughs a little as he lays his greatest one bare. “Every night, and during the day as well. Always.”

The sound that tears from Hashirama’s throat is three parts relief and one part desire, and he moves in a smooth surge of muscle, toppling Obito back onto the blanket beneath them and sprawling out on top of him, propped up on his elbows as he finally fits their mouths together.

The first kiss is hot and searing, full to bursting with pent-up emotions Obito had thought would never come to fruition. But they bloom inside him now, like jasmine in the darkness, and he moans low and throaty as Hashirama overwhelms him, kissing hard and deep. Obito slides his hands from Hashirama’s thick hair, curls them around his biceps instead as teeth scrape across his lower lip. It makes him gasp, and an instant later Hashirama’s hand is on his chest, sliding across hard-earned muscle to find the sash of his robes.

“You're so beautiful,” Hashirama whispers again, pulling back enough to look at him, and the expression on his face makes Obito shiver. There’s something close to wonder in his eyes as he leans down again, kissing across the deep scars, and then fits his mouth over Obito's once more. Obito pushes up into him, desperate for the touch, the closeness, but Hashirama doesn’t laugh. He groans, kissing him just as eagerly, tongues meshing, and Obito can feel the heat that’s gathering in his blood build and spark and shimmer the way his magic does just before a spell.

“I'm the one who should be saying that,” he gasps when they break apart again, and the dizzying heat makes him slide his hand into the neck of Hashirama’s robes, sweep it down to touch firm skin, pebbled nipples, a dusting of wiry hair.

Hashirama shivers at his touch, gasping like he’s being undone, and the power of that simple touch by his hand leaves Obito reeling. He shifts up, spreading his legs and trying to pull Hashirama closer, and Hashirama settles between them without hesitation. He’s a big man, almost overwhelmingly so, but he doesn’t touch Obito like he’s something delicate. More like a sword, strong but well-loved, and the thought is heady and beautiful.

Obito has never wanted anything more than to be this man’s blade.

Deft fingers find Obito's sash, working it off, and in a moment Obito has been stripped of his robes. He shivers a little, less from the cold and more from the silken brush of Hashirama’s long hair sliding across his chest, and Hashirama hums, sliding down. Obito gasps when teeth scrape lightly over the ridge of his collarbone, grabbing automatically for something to ground himself with, but the only thing under his hands is firm flesh and warm skin, and he lets his head drop back, chest hitching.

“Your High—” he starts, but before he can get even another syllable out Hashirama lays a hand over his mouth.

“Not here,” the prince says gently, and when Obito meets his eyes they're as full and endless as the sky above them. “Not now. Never like this, Obito. I'm not a prince here. I'm just—with you. That’s more important, isn’t it?”

It feels like being stabbed without any of the accompanying pain, just a hot-sharp flood in his chest that curls through his blood. It rises up like laughter in him, brighter and happier than Obito can remember ever being before, and all he can think is, _I love this man._

“My king,” he murmurs, smiling up at Hashirama. It might be treason, but it’s also true. Hashirama isn’t the king, he isn’t even the man who saved Obito when the caravan was attacked and Obito was left behind, wounded and fading quickly. But Hashirama was the first to show him kindness, to earn his loyalty, and Obito will never, ever waver in it. Devotion is a heavy word, weighty with meaning, but Obito can't describe what he feels as anything else.

Hashirama’s breath catches, eyes widening, and then his expression softens. He slides up until they're face to face, lets his forehead drop to rest against Obito's. From this distance the wonder in his gaze is everything, and the curve of his smile is the perfection of a fire spell cast flawlessly, beautiful and burning without the threat of being consumed.

Obito would happily let it consume him, if that were the only way he could have this. He would let Hashirama destroy him, break him down, shatter and use and leave him. That Hashirama won't just makes Obito love him more.

He curls his hands around Hashirama’s broad shoulders, tilts his head without breaking their gazes and slants their mouths together. The fine cotton of Hashirama’s robes is impossibly soft beneath his fingers as he pushes them down in a slow sweep of hands over skin. Another kiss, deep and intent, and Hashirama nips at his lips, catches them momentarily between his teeth and then swallows down Obito's gasp as their mouths meet again. He’s forceful, captivating, and it’s all Obito can do to strip him with clumsy, distracted fingers. Hashirama doesn’t make it any easier, one hand curving around Obito's hip, his thumb tracing over sensitive skin and dipping down beyond the waistband of his pants. Obito moans, head falling back as he breaks the kiss, and Hashirama chuckles against his skin as he lays a trail of soft nips down the column of Obito's throat.

“So good for me,”  he murmurs, and Obito can't help the soft cry that escapes him, his hips jerking up at the sound of the dark warmth in Hashirama’s tone. Another quiet laugh, just edged with smugness, and Hashirama presses him down into the blanket as his teeth scrape across Obito's chest. A tongue curls around his nipple and Obito arches into it, breath leaving him in a rush, his hands grasping desperately at thick hair. It makes Hashirama hum as he sucks gently, rolling the bud with his tongue until Obito cries out before he switches to the other one.

“Please,” Obito gasps, barely able to form the words. He’s not inexperienced, has tumbled men and women alike before, but none who have made his mind go blank, his insides twist with heat and want this way. At this point they’ve barely begun and Obito is already lost, could be asking for anything and he wouldn’t give a damn what Hashirama gave him, would take it without worry or care.

Above him, Hashirama groans, pained and wondering and wanting, and moves down further, kissing his way across Obito's abdomen and down over the curve of his hip. His mouth lingers on the ridge of Obito's hipbone, tongue laving the skin as his fingers work Obito's pants down. Those hands linger, sweeping heavily over flesh as if Hashirama wants to memorize every plane of his body, then curl around Obito's thighs. A moment of strength, muscles cording under dark skin, and he sucks hard, catching the skin in a gentle press of teeth.

The cry that rips from Obito's throat is loud and desperate, body jerking up against Hashirama’s hold as the tight knot of want in his gut explodes. He wants to shake, wants to fall apart, wants to stay here forever and never change a single thing about this moment, and it all comes out as gasped and bitten-off words, Hashirama’s name only barely recognizable as it shatters in his mouth beneath the matching mark Hashirama leaves on his other hip.

Another groan, muffled against the curve where hip meets torso, and Obito can feel Hashirama’s lashes brush his skin. “I’ll never recover,” Hashirama tells him breathlessly, “from the way you say my name.”

Obito has to laugh at that, equally breathless as he eases his grip on Hashirama’s hair, stroking gently over the smooth strands. “Aren’t you glad I normally use your title, then?” he asks, amused, and when Hashirama turns his head to look up at him with a small but heartfelt smile, Obito has to smile back.

“I’d be useless if you didn’t,” Hashirama admits, and then turns his attention to the smooth skin between Obito's hipbones. Just the faintest press of teeth before he sucks, and Obito whimpers, trying not to pull on the hair in his grasp but unable to help the short, sharp jerk of his body as the faint sting chases pleasure up through his nerves.

“Ha—Hashirama,” he manages to get out, even though his mind is rapidly going blank to everything except the starbursts of please that flare behind his eyes.

Hashirama hums attentively, even as his fingers loosen on Obito's thighs. The grip turns into a caress that slides up, urging Obito's legs apart, and Hashirama turns his attention to the pale skin there, tongue and teeth bringing another sharp shock of sensation to the surface. Obito jerks, trying to tighten his legs, pull Hashirama in and up, but the man doesn’t move, just lays a teasing kiss at the join of hip and leg and goes back to his task of covering Obito in marks.

Obito groans, his head falling back, and even the bone-deep tremor that shakes through him when Hashirama’s breath ghosts over his straining erection can't distract him from his frustration—only adds to it, to the nova-bright burn that’s eating him away from the center out.

“Hashirama,” he repeats, and curls a leg over the prince’s back as best he can. “Hashirama, _please_.”

At that he glances up, eyes curious, and leaves off mouthing at Obito's skin to push up on his elbows. “What is it?” he asks, and something almost like insecurity flickers through his expression. “Too much? Do you want to stop—?”

Frustration crests, and with an aggrieved groan Obito locks his leg around Hashirama’s torso, braces an arm beneath himself, and rolls them hard. Hashirama yelps as he’s toppled over onto the blanket, Obito sitting astride his stomach and staring down at him. “ _No_ ,” Obito insists. “I want you to _start_.”

Surprise gives way to laughter, and Hashirama tips his head back, hands closing around Obito's hips. He traces the ridges of muscle up, skimming his fingers over Obito's ribs, and then uses his grip to urge Obito down for another kiss. Messier this time, less careful but still deep, and when they break apart Hashirama murmurs, “You are everything I have ever wanted, Obito.”

Obito's breath catches in his chest, and he can't do anything but smile at the beautiful man spread out beneath him. “You're an idiot,” he says, and couldn’t keep the fondness from his voice if he tried. “But—my king. Always.”

A smooth shift and Hashirama rolls them back, sprawling out on top of Obito and pressing a gentle kiss to the center of his chest. “What would you like?” he asks, in between kisses.

Obito hums, shifting just enough to press his thigh upwards against the unmistakable hardness that Hashirama has been ignoring. “I want you inside me,” he says, and can feel Hashirama’s low groan reverberate through him.

“Are you sure?” Hashirama asks, though the words are thick, his voice rough with want. “We don’t have to—”

Obito huffs, tugging sharply at the hair spilling over his chest. “ _Hashirama_. Get up here or I’ll entertain myself and leave you to suffer.”

That makes Hashirama laugh, a little startled but mostly just amused, and he slides up, pressing another kiss to Obito's mouth even as one hand gropes for his saddlebag. When Obito raises a brow at him, he offers up a sheepish smile and admits, “I was—hoping. Hoping I’d finally have the courage to say something.”

Despite himself, Obito softens. He leans up to kiss Hashirama again, gentle and slow, and murmurs, “I'm glad you did.”

“Me too.” Hashirama kisses the corner of his mouth, the edge of his scars, then sits back to slip his pants off and uncork the vial of oil he retrieved from the bags. He pours a measure over his fingers before he leans forward, taking another kiss that leaves Obito breathless. A slick grip around his cock shatters all hope of regaining it, and Obito cries out, muffled against Hashirama’s lips as he arches up into him. The hand is just loose enough to tease, not quite the grip he needs to find completion, and he gasps out a curse that doesn’t quite make it to words.

“Patience,” Hashirama chides, though he’s smiling, and he simply laughs when Obito pointedly knocks a knee against his ribs. A brush of lips and then his hand is gone, sliding down. Fingers circle Obito's entrance, and he tips his head back, eyes closing as he pushes his hips back.

Begging doesn’t seem to be getting him anywhere, but Obito has a better idea, has words he’s been saving up for more than ten years now. “You’ve always been my king,” he says, ragged in the cool air, and can feel Hashirama’s breath catch. “Right from the first moment. I was so scared, and you knelt down in front of me and welcomed me to the palace, and I knew. I knew. It’s always been you, Hashirama—”

A sound pressed into his skin, desperate and undone, and one finger slides into him. Obito's words tangle up in his throat, overwhelmed by a choked cry at the stretch as another follows, curling against his walls, pressing up and making him shudder. He loses time, the only thing he can focus on the pressure, the heat of Hashirama’s mouth on his skin as his desire winds higher and higher.

“Obito,” Hashirama breathes into the curve of his throat as he slides up, getting his hands on Obito's hips as Obito wraps his legs around the prince’s torso. “Obito, Obito.”

Blunt pressure, and Obito cries out for half a moment before Hashirama steals the sound from his mouth. This stretch is harder, thicker, and he shudders as Hashirama slides home. His fingers dig into the muscle of Hashirama’s back, and his vision is made entirely of long black, hair, impossibly dark eyes, the intent and unwavering expression on Hashirama’s face. It’s too much, overwhelming, and Obito has to close his eyes as Hashirama stops. There are harsh breaths in his ear, a fine tremor in the body pressed tight against his, and blindly Obito turns his head, pressing his lips to Hashirama’s cheek, his jaw, his lips. Hashirama kisses back, breathless bursts of heat that never quite last long enough, and then pulls back and rocks forward.

Obito jerks, a cry fracturing on his lips even as he pushes back to meet each thrust, curls his arms around Hashirama until they're rocking desperately together, never quite separating far enough. It’s too much and not enough all at once, the sharp edge blunted by glancing kisses, by the desperation in grasping hands and muffled cries. Easy enough to wish they could stay here forever; easy enough to wish this could last between them right up until the world ends.

“Obito,” Hashirama gasps out, and then in the same breath, “ _Beloved_ ,” and Obito shudders, gasping. He reaches down, gets a hand on himself, stroking hard and quick, and a moment later Hashirama’s fingers tangle with his on his cock. The joined touch is too much, too close, and he comes hard, shaken silent, with stars alight behind his eyes.

“Keep going,” he rasps, when he can finally form the words again. Hashirama is frozen over him, every muscle strung tight and almost quivering, and Obito tugs him in, presses a clumsy kiss to the corner of his mouth, and whispers, “Please, move, I want to see you come. You're so beautiful, let me see it. Let me give you this.”

With a low whine, Hashirama thrusts forward hard, Obito's legs gone too lax to hold him close. The sensation on every oversensitive nerve makes Obito gasp, just on the border of being too much, and he twists his fingers into Hashirama’s hair, cupping the back of his head as he pants into Obito's shoulder, voice hitching in sharp, high sounds as he ruts desperately against Obito. One last hard thrust, a choked moan, and he goes still, chest heaving and body slick with sweat. Obito is no better, winded and languid even with the aftershock of sensation running through him, and he breathes out shakily, sweeping a palm down over Hashirama’s back.

“You’re amazing,” he manages, and Hashirama laughs, laying a kiss over his heart.

“Beloved,” he repeats, as though Obito could have missed it, and Obito has to close his eyes against the flood of warmth.

“My king,” he answers, almost soundless, and looks up again when Hashirama takes his hand, pressing a light kiss to his knuckles.

“I’ll get the blankets,” Hashirama tells him, so gentle that Obito knows he means something else entirely.

Easy enough to guess, after ten years of dogging Hashirama’s footsteps every day. “Only one set,” Obito tells him, and watches the relieved smile spread over Hashirama’s face. It’s almost laughable; did Hashirama _ever_ think that this was something brief and transient for Obito?

With a chuckle, Hashirama shifts away, and when Obito winces at the feeling as the separate he kisses him again, not quite an apology. “Safer for me that way,” he teases, rising to his feet, and in the lamplight his skin glows, his eyes are fathomless. There's a regal air to him, even though in this state he should be just as awkwardly human as anyone else, and Obito stares up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. It’s like that first moment all over again, the quiet certainty spreading to every corner of his being, and Obito welcomes it, smiling up at Hashirama in the darkness.

Hashirama smiles back, stooping for just a moment to ghost the backs of his fingers across Obito's scarred cheek before he straightens again. “Probably safer for me that way,” he says, laughing a little. “That mare of yours hates everyone. I wouldn’t want to get savaged trying to get to your packs.”

“Kaguya’s just picky,” Obito defends, though it’s halfhearted at best. She’s a good horse, fierce and fiery, but there's only one stable hand capable of dealing with her, and Obito is the only one who can ride her.

“She has good taste,” Hashirama says cheerfully, and in a moment he’s back with his bedroll and a rag, the latter of which Obito accepts gratefully. As Hashirama lays out their bedding, he wipes himself down, then rises on legs that are vaguely wobbly to find the pants Hashirama tossed away. The chill is starting to bite as sweat cools on his skin, but it’s not unpleasant, and Obito sinks back down into the sand with a faint sigh, crossing his legs beneath him. The stars are still bright, innumerable as they march from horizon to horizon, and looking up still feels a little like flying.

Warm, bare arms slide around his waist as Hashirama settles behind him, and Obito gladly leans back into his hold, tipping his head back to rest on Hashirama’s shoulder. His skin is still buzzing faintly, and he hums contentedly as Hashirama kisses the curve of his jaw.

“Come to bed?” Hashirama asks, low and warm. “I’d like to hold you while we sleep.”

Obito can't think of anything that sounds better than that.


End file.
